Believing (Lily Dale #2)(21)

“Candyland!” Ethan echoes, clapping his chubby little hands.

And off Calla goes with them, relieved to have found a reprieve—at least a temporary one—from all that’s been troubling her here in Lily Dale.





The sun-splashed afternoon with Paula’s kids was so pleasant that Calla finds herself feeling almost lighthearted when she’s back home at her grandmother’s house.

Odelia has made a delicious eggplant lasagna. As they eat, Calla tells her about school and her afternoon babysitting, careful to leave out her walk home with Jacy. They’re both polishing off their second helpings of lasagna when the phone rings.

“It’s for you. Willow York,” Odelia tells Calla, passing the receiver to her.

“Oh . . . hello? Willow?”

“Hi, Calla. Mr. Bombeck wants me to help you with the math. Are you available tonight?” She doesn’t sound particularly friendly, but she’s not unfriendly, either. More like . . . briskly efficient. Like someone taking a phone reservation from a stranger.

“I think so. We’re eating right now, but I’ll be finished soon.”

“Okay. Can you come to my house at seven o’clock?”

“That’s fine.”

“Good. See you then.”

She hangs up to find Odelia watching her, wearing a pleased expression. “I didn’t know you were friendly with Willow. You’re really creating quite the social circle around here, aren’t you?”

Calla thinks about telling her it’s just a study session. Then again, why burst Odelia’s bubble?

After dinner, Odelia disappears behind closed doors with a newly widowed elderly client. The phone rings as Calla’s washing the dishes.

Maybe it’s Jacy, she thinks fleetingly, before dismissing that idea. He said they’d talk tomorrow.

It’s probably just someone looking for a reading with her grandmother. Calla plucks her hands from the hot, greasy orange dishwater; rinses them quickly; and picks up the phone.

“Yes, hello. Calla Delaney, please?” The voice in her ear is male, formal, and asking for her.

Who can it be? Definitely not Jacy or Blue.

Why would a man be calling her?

Oh no . . . Dad!

What if something happened to him in California?

Please, no . . . no . . . don’t do this to me. I can’t bear it.





SIX

“This is Calla.” Her voice trembles and she grips the counter with one hand to steady—and prepare—herself.

The lasagna roils in her stomach as she wonders if this is what the spirits were warning her about all along.

Is she an orphan?

“I’m from the AP in New York, calling about the Columbus Dispatch piece.”

The Columbus Dispatch piece . . . the Columbus Dispatch piece . . .

The words are in English, but they might as well be in some exotic foreign tongue for all Calla comprehends. But the most important meaning is crystal clear: this isn’t about her father. Not if this person is calling from New York . . . and the AP? That makes no sense whatsoever.

Unless he’s calling to take back her AP math status. Can they do that? And so soon?

“I know I’m having a hard time in math, but it’s only been two days—one, really—and I’m going to work with my study partner tonight, so I hope you’ll give me a chance to stay in the program . . .” She trails off, deciding not to tack on a pretty please?

Maybe she should have, though, because the man is silent.

“Hello?” she says after a minute, wondering if he’s hung up on her.

“Oh!” he says suddenly, and starts to chuckle. “AP. You thought I meant Advanced Placement program!”

“Didn’t you?” she asks, confused—not to mention resenting the fact that he’s laughing at her, even as she’s relieved that whatever he’s calling about, it’s definitely not bad news about her father, because he wouldn’t find the least bit of humor in that. “What are you talking about, then?”

He gives a little sigh the way people do after a good laugh, then says in a regular voice, “I’m from the Associated Press.”

Like that makes any more sense than the Advanced Placement program.

“You must have the wrong number,” she says, before remembering that he asked for her by name and . . . oh!

It’s a newspaper: Columbus Dispatch.

As in Columbus, Ohio?

That’s where Kaitlyn Riggs lived . . . and not far from where her murdered body was found the other day . . .

Thanks to me.

“I’d like to speak to you about your role in the Riggs case,” the man tells her. “You are the girl who helped locate the body, aren’t you?”

“How do you know about that?”

“The Dispatch. I didn’t have your name, just your age, where you live, the fact that you’re a new arrival, living with your grandmother . . . It wasn’t hard to track you down by asking around. Small towns are like that.”

“I don’t—are—you’re a reporter?” Calla asks, trying to keep up with what he’s saying and with her own racing, bewildered thoughts.

“Yes, and I’m working on a story about police psychics and their role in—”